


They're From Us

by verucasalt123



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Homeless Network, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 00:59:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5227814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/pseuds/verucasalt123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill from days of yore that I found on my LJ.</p>
<p>John & Sherlock's first Christmas. Bring your toothbrush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They're From Us

Sherlock woke to the sound of the kettle boiling. After only a moment spent sorting details in his mind, he realized that it was Christmas morning. 

Christmas didn’t mean a damn thing to Sherlock. 

Okay, so that wasn’t exactly true. It hadn’t meant a damn thing to him until this. His _relationship_ , the whole thing he had going on with John. 

At the very least, it was unexpected, the two of them ending up together in this romantic context when John still insisted he wasn’t gay and Sherlock never thought he’d have a desire to go to bed with anyone he was ever going to see again. 

So this was different. For both of them. John had been more than patient accepting Sherlock’s eccentricities and hesitations, so Sherlock felt the least he could do was settle in with John’s affection for holidays (and birthdays and _anniversaries_ of this or that event). 

During the previous week, he’d deduced that John had gone shopping and procured a gift meant for Sherlock for the occasion. What else could he do, honestly? He had to have a gift ready for John. All of a sudden, it wasn’t beneath him to text his brother and John’s sister, even Lestrade, to ask for ideas. Sherlock hadn’t purchased a Christmas gift for anyone except his mother for years, so he was at a bit of a loss there. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t know the things that made John happy, the things John cared for and cherished because they’d been given to him by people who loved him. It was Sherlock’s turn now, because he loved John and wanted more than anything to get this _right_. 

Too often, he’d thought he’d been doing something right and it turned out that what he’d done was, in reality, _wrong_. Not this time. He was determined, and with the guidance of others who were close to them, Sherlock thought maybe he’d scored this time. 

Together, they’d gone out and chosen gifts for their friends and family, getting used to the idea that these would be given from ‘them’, not from John or from Sherlock, but from both of them. Because this was what couples did, he supposed.

Making his way into the sitting room, he took in the unfamiliar look of fairy lights and a decorated tree crowding the small space. They made John happy, so he put up no argument (except for the bit with the tinsel, he’d stood his ground on that one). 

Any grouchiness that was lingering disappeared immediately when John stepped out of the kitchen grinning and holding two mugs of tea.

He looked almost sheepish as he offered one to Sherlock, but still kept the smile and said, “Happy Christmas, love.”

Sherlock had no resistance against this version of John, the sentimental and soft side of his personality that didn’t really show itself all that often. So he bent down and kissed the top of John’s head, responding, “Happy Christmas to you, John.”

“I know you’re not all that thrilled with what we’ve got on the agenda for today…visiting and exchanging gifts and all that…”

“It’s all right, I agreed, and though stopping by your sister’s place and my brother’s may not be all that appealing to me, I’m happy to go and give Mrs Hudson our Christmas gift.”

John looked at him skeptically, so Sherlock assured him. “Honestly, we picked it out together, she’s going to be all teary-eyed in her happy motherly way and it’ll make her day. She’s been good to us, it’s the least we can do.”

“Right. Yeah, okay. But you know, before we get on to all that, I’ve got something for you.”

“Yes, I know, love, and I’ve got something for you. Let’s save it for later, though, right? We’ll make our rounds, like Saint Nicholas and his-”

“Don’t fucking say it, Sherlock.”

All right, so maybe John wouldn’t appreciate the elf joke, but he was still smiling, so…yeah, good, that was good. 

The two of them stopped first just downstairs, finding Mrs Hudson still in her dressing gown. John, amazing and sweet and proper John, fell all over himself apologizing for not calling first. 

“Oh, don’t you be silly, John Watson! You’ve seen me crying and afraid, you’ve patched me up, you’ve even seen me hide a mobile in my underthings. I don’t care about having company in my nightclothes, as long as it’s the two of you boys.” Still, boys, she always called them boys, no matter that John was almost forty years old and Sherlock wasn’t far behind. 

With a bit of trepidation, Sherlock was the one to hand her the box they’d had wrapped at the shop, since neither of them had any skill in that particular department. Gasping slightly, she took it and asked, “You’ve gotten me a gift?”

“ _We_ have gotten you a gift. John and I. Go on, open it and tell us if we did all right”, Sherlock responded with a little grin. 

“Come in and sit then, I insist.” Neither of them were fool enough to refuse anything Mrs Hudson insisted, so they took their places at her kitchen table and she opened the package, revealing a new bottle of the perfume she always wore. 

“Oh, darlings, how thoughtful. How did you even know…”

John looked pointedly at Sherlock, then back to Mrs Hudson. “Well, of course. Yes, of course. Thank you both so very much. How incredibly thoughtful. Now stay put while I get yours.”

Neither of them were surprised that she’d gotten them a gift, and they both thanked her profusely for the new set of dishes. It’s not like she didn’t know how many of theirs had been broken because of clumsiness, experiments gone awry, and that one time she’d threatened to call in a domestic if they didn’t _settle down and behave like adults this instant_ when she’d heard breaking stoneware along with the shouts from upstairs during a particularly ugly argument a month or so ago. 

After depositing their present back in the flat, they headed out to deliver their own little gifts to Molly (who was reduced to tears almost immediately upon unwrapping the strange hair-styling contraption she’d mentioned just once in front of John); to Lestrade (who cursed and graced them both with quick embraces when he saw the new motorcycle helmet they’d brought him); to Harry (who hadn’t started drinking yet today, and was truly appreciative of the lovely matching scarf and hat and gloves they’d chosen for her); to Mycroft (who stoically nodded and thanked them for the bottle of scotch). 

John and Sherlock had received gifts in return from all of them; just one gift meant for them both, like Mrs Hudson had done. It was late afternoon when they finally returned to Baker Street, physically and emotionally exhausted. 

“I’m not cooking tonight, dear, we’re going to have to order takeaway, is that all right?” John asked.

“Of course it’s all right. I’m tired too. But we still have our own gifts to exchange, don’t forget.” Sherlock’s grin was sly and almost predatory. He was excited and nervous and feeling unsteady, and he still wasn’t used to all that, though he was learning. 

The two of them sat on the floor of the sitting room, and it seemed neither of them were anxious to go first, but of course, John took the leap and handed Sherlock a plain unwrapped white box. 

Sherlock took his time opening it, then just sat and stared for maybe a moment too long for John’s comfort when he heard his lover say, “It’s all right if you don’t-”

He was cut off there when Sherlock broke his gaze at the beautiful wristwatch and leaned in to press a hard kiss against John’s mouth. “It’s perfect, love. I can’t even tell you…I’ve got to put it on, set it…”

Almost embarrassed, John replied, “I’ve already set it” in a small, quiet voice.

Sherlock kissed him again. And again. “Thank you, John. I love it. I don’t…well, thank you, anyway, just, you know…it really is so damn perfect. Exactly what I would have picked out if I were choosing one for myself. Guess you know me just as well as I do.”

John was still a bit pink in the cheeks at the praise, but he managed to hold Sherlock’s gaze long enough to say, “I’m happy you like it.”

Last gift of the day, now, and it was Sherlock’s turn to hand over a package to John. One adorned with cheerful holiday paper and a curly ribbon on top. “You got this wrapped!”

Sherlock pretended to be indignant for just a moment, responding, “And how do you know I didn’t do the wrapping myself?”

One raise of John’s eyebrow was enough to compel Sherlock to admitting he obviously hadn’t done it on his own. Picking out the gift, though, _that_ part he had done on his own (well, with some ideas from their friends and family). 

John carefully unwrapped the paper, setting aside the ribbon, and was stunned when he looked down into the box, seeing a framed and matted photo of Sherlock and himself, a candid shot, taken while the two of them sat on a park bench. In the photo, John was looking up at Sherlock and Sherlock was holding his hand against John’s cheek, clearly moving in to kiss him at any moment. 

Now, John Watson didn’t shy away from his sentimental side, didn’t feel like it was anything to be ashamed of. But to see the same thing mirrored back at him from the love of his life…he lost the fight against the tears welling up in his eyes. “Sherlock…this is – I can’t even tell you…how did you get this?”

“Never you mind, I just thought you’d like it.” So he’d paid one of his homeless network connections to trail them on a romantic afternoon and try to catch a few shots of intimacy with a borrowed digital camera. This was the one he liked best, and the one that he figured John would like best. They weren’t making out or pawing at each other, just demonstrating their close bond with a look and a soft touch. 

“It’s the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten, I swear. I’m going to put it right next to the skull, so I can see it every day, and so anyone who comes to visit will see it too. Sherlock, I will treasure this photo for all my life, I swear.”

Sherlock recognized the moment when John had no choice but to let the tears borne from this intense emotion fall, and he gathered John into his arms. 

“I know you said you were too tired to cook dinner, but maybe you could find a little energy for a different kind of gift exchange?”, Sherlock asked, that unmistakable look in his eye suggesting that they take this little celebration to the bedroom. 

“Never too tired for that, you know it. Thank you, I know you’re only indulging in this Christmas nonsense because of me-”

“It’s important to you, which automatically rules out the possibly of it being nonsense. But now we’ve given gifts and collected gifts and plugged in the fairy lights and I think there is a more proper way for us to celebrate the holiday together, now that obligations to other people have already been met.”

“Of course. Yes, I…yes, of course, please, let’s just get into bed and not get out until tomorrow”. John replied eagerly. 

Sherlock flashed a wide grin and said, “Yes, right away, but let’s not forget that tomorrow is Boxing Day.”

John turned a bit red at that comment, certainly realizing its context, but that was okay.

It was fine, it was all fine, and other than getting their takeaway (which John had already decided would be Sherlock’s favorite curry) there was nothing else to do but spend the rest of the afternoon and evening in bed together. 

Sherlock led them to the bedroom and hours later, they ended the day the way they’d started it.

“Happy Christmas, John.”

Half-asleep already, John managed to get out a soft “Happy Christmas, my love” in return before he drifted off. 

Maybe, Sherlock thought, this wasn’t such a silly holiday after all.


End file.
